


Dead Man's Float

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, April Showers Challenge, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-26
Updated: 2007-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Man's Float

  
**Part 1**

****_~_  
_Everybody dies, right, Jim? So if you look at it, if you gather up all the possible shared themes behind the thousands of human rituals all geared to handle death, the one thing you notice, for all of them, is that funerals aren't ultimately for the dead, but for the living._  
~  
  
Perfect Sentinel recall brought Blair's words unwelcome to Jim's mind while he watched, with dry eyes, as they lowered the empty casket into the ground. Naomi, damn her, had left him a cold voice message stating she would be holding her own service—if you could call it that—but that, since they didn't even have a body to bury, her son's spirit would be available to her wherever she was.

Jim thought if that were true he would feel it too, somehow, but instead he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

 _~_  
_The living need to gather with others who are feeling the same thing. So they get together, and mourn, and share, and the rituals grant them whatever kind of spiritual peace they can take away from the ceremony._  
~

 __The crew from Major Crime looked different, and at first Jim thought it was the somber clothes, but then he realized it was the way they all seemed separate, were standing too far apart. Not just grief, but guilt—guilt put them all at arm's distance.

They thought they'd failed Blair, but Jim's was the worst failure of all. Because Blair was his responsibility.  
__  
~  
_But the rituals are geared to do so much more than help loved ones get over their grief. A huge part of it is to help the living accept the fact of their own mortality, because there's nothing like a funeral, no matter what type, to remind us we are all food for worms. Eventually._  
~

 __Maybe it was that, too—that this failure was the first, and had tarnished the glow that surrounded them. Simon, Megan, and Jim had all been shot just a few months ago, but no one had died. They never let themselves think it was possible. Except it was.

Sandburg was always too good at bucking the rules.

 _~_  
_We like to think we will live on, somehow, and that's part of the ritual, too. I can't tell you how many different cultures have some hymn or prayer that runs "You will be remembered. You will be remembered," repeated over and over. So many times it's almost desperate, you know? Like—please, let me be remembered when I go._  
~

The first clods of dirt made a clatter on the empty bronze coffin, and Jim was startled, realizing the service was over. He'd missed the whole thing. But it wasn't like he could forget any of it.

No one was looking at him. They were all pointedly not looking at him, but he knew he should be the first after the rabbi, so he took two calm steps forward and grabbed a handful of dirt, dusting it over the bronze lid. Why bronze? It should have been pine. Blair would have wanted to keep to the Jewish tradition, even if he didn't practice, himself. But then Jim was zoned at the time Megan had made the preparations—zoned for over a week, unseeing, unknowing, his senses snared during the endless search for the body they knew had to be trapped under the river.

 _~_  
_Treatment of the body is handled so many different ways, depending on the culture, it's hard to make any sort of broad social assumptions. Some societies bury, some burn, some put 'em in trees. Some eat parts of the body—C'mon, Jim, you want your face to freeze that way?—and some even just leave them where they lie._  
~

 __Blair was left where he lay, because they couldn't find him. And maybe that was why Jim couldn't believe he was dead. So, he could stand here, dry-eyed and feeling like the whole thing was unreal, a charade. But that didn't explain why he'd lost all the sensation in his fingertips, or why he'd found he had difficulty speaking ever since he'd finally been pulled from his zone by Simon's frantic slaps.

 _~_  
_Did you know they believe there's actually a physiological basis for grief? Jim, it's amazing: the brain, based on patterns of input—such as a loved one making the usual joke or whatever—will actually tell the body to release particular hormones in response. The only problem is, take away the input and the body actually goes through withdrawal. It's the reason people get physically homesick; it might even be the reason widows or widowers die so soon after their spouses._  
~  
  
He and Blair had never had anything like that. They lived together, sure, but they didn't have a physical relationship, weren't even close to being married, and so the idea he could just up and die from missing Blair was absurd to the extreme. But the numbness that had started at the river had spread to Jim's face. It felt like he had frostbite, as if the skin of his cheeks and forehead was dead. And everything looked darker.

Like he was losing the light.

~  
_Get this—the Maori will **not** leave the body alone between death and the funeral. They bring it to the marae, which is kind of like a village center where all the important stuff happens, and there are always people there to watch over it. But here's the kicker: it's not that unusual for a couple to get married at the marae sometime between a death and the funeral, so they end up having a corpse at their wedding. They think it's no big deal._

_People are so fascinating, really.  
~_

__Jim was bored at the wake. All these people thought they knew Sandburg, but they only knew parts of him, only the parts he would show. The guy had a million facets, all of them genuine, so people loved what they knew of him. But none of them had ever had to dig out his stinky socks from between the couch cushions.

They didn't understand how Jim could be so cold. He could tell that much. Connor kept giving him the hairy eyeball. He should have been broken up. He should've been crying, or at least gotten drunk and made a scene. They didn't get why he just wanted it over.

Simon's heavy hand rested on Jim's shoulder, and Jim shook it away.

~  
_The Kikuyu are afraid of their own dead. Proud warriors won't even go near the corpse, since the ngoma, or spirits of the dead, are considered evil. So when someone is sick and close to death, they'll just drag 'em out to the bush to get eaten by leopards or whatever before death transforms them into a bad spirit._

_I couldn't help thinking about Monty Python when I heard that. There's this one scene where a guy swings through a bubonic village with his cart, chanting, "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" And this poor man with the plague doesn't want them to put him in the cart. He says, "I'm not dead! No really, I'm feeling better! I feel happy!"  
~_

__Jim wanted to go back to the river. That's all he'd wanted since he came out of his record eight-day zone. They'd waited for him, probably because they thought they might have to have a double funeral. But in Jim's timeline it had only been a few days since the river, and he needed to go back.

He needed to find Blair's—

He needed to find Blair.

~~~

  
**Part 2**

 ****Jim brought his wetsuit. He didn't have scuba gear, but he did have a short-term air supply apparatus he'd acquired back in his Army days, and a quick trip to marine surplus got him some spare canisters.

He'd never told Sandburg very much about his time in the corps. Never told him about the four guys in his unit who'd died of hypothermia during training in a Florida swamp. Tillman, Palmer, Dodge, and... Jim couldn't remember the name of the last one. That seemed wrong. Everybody should be remembered.

It was easy to find the point where Jim's truck had gone into the river. Right at the bend—where the cut brake-line had finally given out, and where the public works department had hastily repaired the traffic barrier and slapped on some fresh paint.

He should never have loaned Sandburg the truck.

Jim strapped on his gear and went into the river right where he'd zoned on the bank. The current was fierce, and he'd barely stepped in before he was almost washed downstream. Search and Rescue had hunted downstream, of course, but the bank went steep a couple hundred yards down, and there were thousands of undercuts and cavelets, making it difficult to run a proper search.

Jim wasn't going to do a proper search. His plan was simple, and incredibly dangerous. Blair would have loved it. Simon would probably kill him if he survived. Because after fighting his way to the approximate location of the overturned truck, Jim simply let himself go.

The current took him fast, and he didn't try to stop it. He floated, acting like an unconscious body; or, more precisely, an unconscious Blair. A man Jim's size would end up face down in a dead man's float, but Blair was small, had shorter limbs, and would likely float on his back.

Jim's small tank was strapped to his chest, so his back was unprotected. He ground over a few boulders, and then the water deepened. To his sides, the banks rose steep and canyon-like, threaded with the thick roots of trees struggling to maintain a perch.

~  
_You'd better not wreck my baby, Sandburg. If you do, don't bother coming home.  
_ ~

A branch struck him in the head, and Jim resisted putting his hands up for protection. Instead, he floated.

He was dead weight.

The water was cold, but not frigid, and he was wearing his thickest suit and had a thin layer of water warming against his skin. His hands and face were chilled, but already numb, so he wasn't uncomfortable.

The river took a terrifying bend and Jim dipped and slammed against a rock before spinning off, back into the rushing current. His arm and shoulder ached fiercely.

The pain felt good, like he was evening the scales.

Fifteen minutes had passed. So far, floating on his back had kept his head above water for the most part, and he hadn't needed his air mask. It wasn't unreasonable to assume that if Blair had survived the crash, he could survive this.

But the thought came too soon, because the river dropped into a short series of rapids, and suddenly Jim was tumbling, fighting not to stiffen up, to keep his body appropriately corpse-like. It was difficult to fight his instincts. The rocks were tearing into his suit, bruising him. His head was underwater, and he saw the boulder approaching an instant before impact.

When he bobbed to the surface again, dazed, he could feel warm blood pouring from his eyebrow.

After a while, the river slowed and churned him sideways into an eddy near a shallow beach. He waited to be sucked back into the current, but instead he bobbed and was turned, then turned again, slowly, bumping gently against the ring of boulders that formed the break. He floated for five minutes before it occurred to him that this was it. This was the place.

He swam a few strokes until he stood in shallow water. He was afraid to raise his eyes and look around. It took him a few moments to steel himself to do it.

When he did, he didn't even need his senses to see it. The tracks were obvious. Someone, or some thing, had dragged itself out of this muddy bank and up through a break in the sheltering trees.

Jim's heart, which had frozen two weeks and countless beats ago, warmed slightly in his chest. A tiny thaw. Nothing was proven. Two _weeks_ had passed.

Two weeks of living like the dead.

Jim shuffled out of the water and started up the trail. An occasional series of flat stones marked the path as man-made, which gave Jim another slight pang. People meant help. And, yes, their search for John Does had revealed nothing, but they were far off the path of civilization, here. This was forest—dense Washington forest.

_Oh, God, let him be alive._

__The thought popped, unacceptably hopeful, into Jim's mind. He sternly pushed it away.

Twenty yards from the bank he thrust through a veil of bushes that overgrew the path and suddenly found himself facing a small cabin.

_God. Oh, God._

__Jim's control broke suddenly, like the snapping of a branch too heavy to bear its own weight. He stumbled then ran toward the front of the tiny cabin. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open further, letting light into the shaded interior.

His eyes adjusted automatically, and he took in, in one fast sweep: a boarded window, a broken table, a pile of leaves and garbage, and a small cot against the wall.

Lying on the cot with one legged propped and splinted, was Blair Sandburg. Who was blinking, shoving himself up to prop himself on his hands, opening his mouth and—

"Hey, man. What the fuck took you so long?"

_Alive._

__The room spun strangely for a moment, and Jim locked his suddenly shaky knees. He parted his lips to respond, but no words came out, just a dry whistle. He swallowed hard, wet his lips, tried again.

"Chief."

Four yards separated them, but Jim couldn't seem to move. His feet were cement. He leaned his weight forward and then he was stumbling toward the cot, and Blair. Jim cupped his bearded cheeks, making sure. Then his shoulders and his chest, warm under the grungy flannel.

With a bemused expression, Blair tolerated Jim's examination for all of twenty seconds before reaching up and pushing at his shoulder.

"Seriously, man, what took you so long?"

Jim spoke, his voice harsh in his throat, "I thought I was dead."

"What?" Blair's smile died.

"I-I mean— _you_. I—we thought—we thought you were dead," Jim stammered.

"Oh... _oh!_ " Now Blair's voice was shaky. "Jesus, Jim. Are you—?"

"Yeah." Jim coughed, dropping his eyes, which landed on Blair's leg. It was splinted tightly between two narrow boards. "Christ. No wonder—" His hand hovered over it, locating the heat and swelling. "Fractured fibula, looks like."

Blair laughed, a little disbelievingly, and Jim met his eyes again, only for a moment, before he had to drop his head into his hands, squeezing his fingertips into his scalp hard, trying to hold it all in.

"Hey..."

He felt Blair's tentative touch on his arm, and Jim jumped up and fumbled at the pack around his waist. He pulled out his cell phone and tore open the plastic bag containing it.

"Simon." Jim firmed up his voice. "This is Jim. I-I found him. He's _alive_."

~~~

  


Jim paced, his wetsuit stretching cold along his ribs and back. He could feel Blair's eyes on him.

"Eight miles, Chief. You really came a ways."

"Oh, yeah. Next time, though, I think I'd like a raft to ride in."

"Be careful what you wish." Jim shot a tight smile in Blair's direction. "Search and Rescue is taking us out by raft boat."

"Sounds good. I can't freakin' wait. Man, if I never see another can of chicken noodle soup it'll be too goddamned soon, you know?"

Jim swallowed the lump damming his throat. "Yeah, Chief. From now on it's Wonderburger all the way, I promise."

"Uh, not what I meant. And you know it."

Jim gave a dry, coughing laugh.

"There's water there in the bucket if you need it. Or get some fresh from the pump. It tastes fantastic. They should bottle it."

"Thanks." Jim wasn't really thirsty, but it gave him something to do. He couldn't believe Sandburg had managed to drag himself up with a broken leg and use the pump, feed himself, use the bucket in the corner. But then, this was Sandburg. Toughest bastard in his acquaintance, hippie appearances to the contrary. Tough enough to survive when everyone else had written him off.

Jim had written him off.

_Oh, God. Forgive me._

__"Can I have some of that?" Blair sounded oddly shy behind him.

Jim nodded and fumbled with the pump and the enameled cup, his hands still clumsy and numb. He brought the cup back to Blair's cot, and suddenly he had to sit down on the floor beside it. His legs just wouldn't hold him any longer.

He could feel the warmth of Blair's hand on his shoulder, and it was almost enough to break him.

"How did you find me?" Blair's voice was soft. "I mean I knew you would; I just didn't know _how_. There's no road, just forest."

Jim turned his back so he could rest his shoulders against the edge of the cot. "I...I floated."

"You floated."

"Yeah. Didn't swim. I went in at the crash site and just let the river bring me to you."

He heard Blair pull in a harsh breath.

"Well, that explains the goose egg. Jim—"

"Yeah, I know. But I couldn't think of anything else. I couldn't—the senses were useless. I zoned big time when I tried."

"Shit. Who brought you out? How?"

Jim laughed soundlessly. "Simon. He smacked me around pretty good. Bet he liked having the excuse."

But Blair didn't laugh. Instead, he started moving his hand, rubbing Jim's shoulder. Even through four millimeters of neoprene Jim could feel the heat, the living heat of that hand. He shivered.

"You cold? Need to dry off? I think there are some more towels in that chest. Sorry, but I've got all the blankets."

"I'm fine." _Now._

"Good."

They sat in silence until Jim found himself saying abruptly, "We had a funeral. For you."

Blair's hand froze. "Jesus. Jesus Christ, Jim, I'm so sorry—"

Jim wasn't sure why that quiet apology should be the final straw, but suddenly something in his chest broke wide open, hurtful and hot, and his throat caught. And then again, shaking him against the bed. The harder he tried to control it the more it hurt, tearing at his throat until he was gasping.

"Jim. Aw, man." Sandburg's voice, uneven and thick. Jim reached up and took Blair's hand, pressed his mouth against the palm, then brought it up to cover his eyes.

They were still sitting there when Search and Rescue finally showed up.

~~~

  
**Part 3  
**  
~  


_You know, Stanislaw Lee was famous for saying 'The first condition of immortality is death.' I'm all over that, man. I'd rather just be alive._

~

 __They took Sandburg directly to the hospital via chopper as soon as they hit the bank. Jim wasn't allowed to go along. He wasn't up for a chopper ride, anyway—even on a good day it would bring back too many memories, and his senses would've given him hell.

Simon insisted on taking him to the hospital for his various cuts, which he hadn't felt at all. He'd felt nothing except the warmth of Blair's hand. It had seemed like the only real thing in the world.

Unfortunately, the local hospital wasn't the one they'd taken Sandburg to, and by the time they'd stitched Jim up and X-rayed his skull, Sandburg had called his cell to tell him they were done with him, and he was catching a cab home.

It seemed wrong, somehow. Jim should've been with him, or at least have been waiting to welcome him home.

Simon drove Jim back to Cascade, pummeling him with questions the whole way. Jim answered automatically, somewhat surprised when Simon didn't rip him a new one for his method in finding Blair.

Instead, Simon just shook his head and laughed dryly. "You sure don't want to live long, Ellison."

No. That was something he had realized back in Peru, and this time it had been infinitely worse. Outliving the people he cared about—

_Loved._

__—okay, _loved_ , wasn't something he wanted a lifetime of.

There was a news van parked in front of the loft, and Simon shielded him from the reporters while they pushed through to the front door. The elevator seemed to take forever, and Jim suddenly remembered he'd hardly slept for days. He had to remind his feet to move when the doors opened.

Noisy laughter and shouts echoed down the hallway, so he wasn't surprised, when he pushed open the door to the loft, to find the entire gang from Major Crime in attendance.

And at the center, newly-casted leg propped up on the couch, was Blair. He was grinning widely, clean-shaven, his hair damp as if he'd had a hasty shower.

Everyone turned at Jim's entrance and his name was called in varying shouts. Henri came up to him and clapped him on the shoulder so hard that Jim reeled sideways. Simon gave him some subtle support, and then Jim rocked forward into the center of the room. Rafe stood quickly and offered him a spot on the other couch, and Jim let himself collapse there.

"Sorry about the home invasion, mate," Connor said, picking up on his silence.

Jim waved her off. "Any of you turkeys save me a beer?"

There was a collective babble of comebacks and laughter, and a cold one was thrust into his hand. Jim sat back, willing to give them the space—and the time with Blair—they obviously needed. They were his friends, and had felt the loss maybe as keenly as he had.

"We were just telling Sandy how we nailed that wanker, Rollie, for cutting your brake line."

"Guess we'll have to reduce the charges now," Simon said, his voice mockingly woeful.

"Yeah, I'm real sorry about that," Blair said, and everyone laughed.

"That's all right, Sandburg. I know you didn't mean it."

The noise and jokes swirled around Jim's ears, echoing strangely as if it were all happening in another room. He felt disconnected from their joy—from his own body. From everything but the snapping blue of Blair's eyes as they moved from person to person, soaking it all in.

Jim went into a semi-zone then, until the scrape of chair legs and the rustle of jackets and zippers clued him in that the spontaneous party was over. His beer had grown warm in his hand, and he rose stiffly to pour it out in the sink. He realized with some surprise that he was still in hospital scrubs, but he couldn't be bothered to change. He found the energy to say goodbye to everyone, to give Simon his thanks with a warm handshake, and then he closed the door and turned.

Outside, in the hallway, he heard Connor say, "You think they're gonna be all right? Sandy's lost a lot of weight. And Jim's still—"

Simon shushed her, and Jim sent a silent thanks to his captain.

"Well, that was fun," Blair said.

His voice sounded a little smug. Jim forced himself to push away from the door.

"They're...well, they're relieved, obviously."

"Not just about _me_ , either."

Oh. Well, Jim had wondered if Blair would say anything about his weird breakdown, and the hand holding. More than friendship had been behind it, Jim knew. No disguising that, especially not from Blair, who already knew pretty much everything there was to know about him. Almost everything.

"Jim—"

"I'm gonna get out of these scrubs, take a shower—"

"In a second. C'mere." Blair waved his hand, and like a magnet Jim was pulled forward.

There was no room on the couch, and he didn't want to sit far away on the other one, so he dropped to the floor next to Blair and leaned his back against the cushions. Just like in the cabin. It was safer, anyway, not to have to look into those eyes.

Blair's hand returned to his shoulder as if it belonged there, and Jim let out a long breath.

"Something I didn't get a chance to say before," Blair said quietly. "Well, I had a chance, but couldn't figure out how to say it."

"Take your time," Jim replied, a little afraid of what would come out of Sandburg's mouth.

"It's thanks, but not just thanks for finding me—I _knew_ you would. I guess it's...thanks for _that_ —that I knew you would. And that I know you always will. 'Cause you will, won't you?"

"Yes. Always." Jim's voice was a croak.

"I thought about it a lot. I had almost fourteen days to think about it, and what it means to know that. Never had anyone in my life like you before, Jim. _Never_."

Jim had to turn his head. Sandburg was looking up, his lips drawn. Jim wanted to fix it, but he didn't know how. He couldn't snap Naomi's spine like a twig, as much as he wanted to. And he couldn't do anything about the past.

The past, fucker that it was, couldn't be changed. Time or two, Jim had had cause to hate that fact, but never more so than fourteen days ago. And maybe Jim deserved it, for all the fuck-ups in his life, but Blair didn't. Blair deserved to be fucking _cherished_ , and Jim couldn't understand why no one was getting on the job.

Blair's eyes dropped and he gave Jim's shoulder a pat. "So...thanks. You can get that shower now."

Damn it, the moment was already over—the moment when Jim could have said something.

"Wait, just wait—" he said.

Blair raised his eyebrows in question.

"Gimme a second. I'm—slow." Jim was suddenly irritated. "You know that about me, Sandburg."

"What? No, Jim—"

"What I—I should have said was, you deserve it. You deserve to always have someone to come after you. No matter what. You have to know that, Chief."

His broken flurry of words brought a small smile, but they still didn't cover all of it. Jim took a deep breath, and now, with no excuses, in the full light streaming from the loft windows, he turned and crouched next to Blair and took his hand again. Took it, and pulled it to rest against his chest.

Blair's eyes widened.

"Oh, shit, I'm gonna screw this all up," Jim muttered.

"I think you're—you're doing pretty good," Blair said, sounding a little short of breath.

Jim set his jaw. "Thing is, Chief...I thought I was dead."

He saw it as Sandburg recognized the words, and his fingers twitched against Jim's chest.

"I thought I was dead, see, and I was just barely floating through everything." His eyes burned and he blinked it back. "And I kept thinking you'd be pissed as hell if you could see me, zoning out for eight days straight—" Blair frowned suddenly "—but I couldn't even care. I guess what I'm saying is, if someone's going to come after you, it's gotta be me, Chief. I've got to be the one to do it."

"You _are_ , Jim," Blair choked out. "Haven't you been listening?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I have." _Incredible_. Jim picked up Blair's hand again and tried to kiss Blair's rough palm, but Blair turned his hand and clasped his fingers, tugging at him strongly.

Jim went with the motion, leaning close to Blair's suddenly flushed face. _No, I'm not really going to—yes, I am._ He deliberately pressed his mouth to Blair's, felt the heat of Blair's skin reflecting against his own, warming him, bringing sensation back to his cheeks, his mouth, his lips that tingled at the softness beneath them. The sudden rush of blood to his head made him dizzy, or maybe that was Blair's tongue, creeping shyly into his mouth. Jim sucked on it gently, and Blair's lips vibrated in a moan.

It was everything Jim had ever wanted, to be this close, to drink in Blair's warmth. Jim wasn't dead any longer. He had no reason to be.

In fact he decided, just then, he was going to live a long, long time.

"Six weeks," Blair said, pulling away from the kiss.

"What?" Jim found his breath.

"Six weeks, and then I get my cast off," Blair said. His fingers were distracting, ruffling through the hair at the back of Jim's head and stroking his neck. Jim captured the wayward hand and pressed it to his mouth, flicking his tongue against the base of Blair's fingers. Blair made a sound.

"And then?" Jim mumbled, not really understanding.

"And then," Blair said with a sly grin, "I'm gonna teach you how to swim."

  
~  
_"Oh, man, Jim. A **bronze** casket? You'd think you could've gotten me something with a little class. You know, in Ghana they actually carve the coffins with tasteful little symbols from the life of the deceased... You could've carved mine with books, and guns, and maybe some beautiful babes—"_

 _"Sandburg, shut up and do that thing again with your tongue."  
_ ~

  
....................  
2007.12.26

**Author's Note:**

> in 1995, four Army Rangers did die of hypothermia during [a training mission in a Florida swamp](https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1995/02/17/four-soldiers-die-in-ranger-training/b3a1393b-1522-4569-9e84-d9ea83c886bb/). They were: Capt. Milton Palmer, 27, of Fishers, Ind.; 2nd Lt. Curt G. Sansoucie, 23, of Rochester, N.H.; 2nd Lt. Spencer D. Dodge, 25, of Stanley, N.Y.; and Sgt. Norman Tillman, 28, of Fort Bragg, N.C. 
> 
> "Ranger training is physically and mentally demanding," said Blanchard, a former Ranger. "They are on short rations, and not a lot of sleep. 
> 
> "It's not unusual for the individual to keep going on sheer guts."  
> And here's the [_Bring Out Your Dead_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sh8mNjeuyV4&NR=1) sketch.  
> 


End file.
